The return journey passed quickly and excitedly. Would Papa take him again to the pool? Yes, Papa would take him every morning to the pool. And would he have to swallow any more salt water? Not unless he opened his mouth at the wrong time. And why was the water salt, and why did it tingle the skin so queerly? Because it was sea water. And would Papa show him the sea? Yes, Papa would show him the sea, and ships under sail; and Papa would some day take him to the shipyards where ships were built. Ah, what prospects of delight! How big the world was growing, how fast the world was spreading. Had not Papa promised him?
The dingy hotel loomed ahead; a mighty craving arose. To the child, the bowl of cold oatmeal was super-manna. Father’s dietary law was strict; simple foods, no coffee, no tea, no pastry, a little meat; and strictly taboo was white flour bread, for the millers had even then begun their work; lots of milk, some brown sugar, plenty of greens and fruit, potatoes only when baked, or boiled in their jackets and so eaten; no greasy things; and at times a tiny sip of claret as a bonus. His time-law for young people was: Taps at eight o’clock, reveille five o’clock. He put his son through a fine and highly varied course of calisthenics to make him supple and resilient. He took him daily to the pump and the pool, made of him for his age a competent diver and swimmer, made him vault fences, throw stones at a mark; taught him to walk properly—head up, chin in, chest out; to stride easily from the hip, loose in the shoulders. And the child worked with gusto; it became play; for the father did all these things with him jointly—they even ran races together, and threw stones at marks, in competition. Surely it was intensive training; but Father was wise in these respects: He knew that where there was hard work, there must also be leisure and relaxation, and time for carefree play. Father was forty-five then, and wondrous wise for his day and generation. To be sure his profession gave him the time to spare.
So, the family frequently went a-picnicking to the lovely banks of the Merrimac River, and elsewhere to shady groves and beauty spots.
This Sunday, it was the first trip to the Merrimac—a clear, calm summer day, not too warm.
They found, at the bend of the river, a bit of greensward, sufficiently shaded, yet leaving an open view of the woods across the water.
The great stream flowed by tranquilly: its dark brown mirror solemnly picturing woods and sky.
The child had never seen a river. Was it not wonderful, this river so wide, so dark, so silent, so swift in its flow? How could such things be? Why had he not known?
Here and there a small fish jumped, leaving a pretty circle of ripples where it fell; and then arose into the air an enormous sturgeon, to fall heavily back, making a great hole whence came a rush of circles expanding magically to the shores, causing sky and trees to totter and twist; then all would be calm again and silent, as the great stream flowed on and on careless of trifles; on and on, so Papa said, until its waters should mingle with the sea’s; on and on, day and night, winter and summer, year after year, before we were born, when we are gone, so Papa said, its waters had flowed and would evermore flow to the sea.
Papa and Mamma had begun to draw pictures of the opposite shore, and were absorbed in the doing.
The child watched sturgeon after sturgeon leap and fall; they seemed to shoot out of the water’s surface. He had never seen such big strong fishes; he had seen nothing larger than minnows and sunfish in South Reading. But here on this river everything was large.
So thinking he wandered downstream along the water’s edge, musing about South Reading, recalling his rivulet, his dam, his marsh. How small they seemed. And then there arose his tall, slender elm, his great ash tree to comfort him. Mechanically he ascended a hill, entered a heavy grove, musing, as he went, upon the great river Merrimac; lost in the thought that the world about him was growing so large that it seemed out of proportion to him—too great for his little size, too bewildering for his untutored mind. Meanwhile something large, something dark was approaching unperceived; something ominous, something sinister that silently aroused him to a sense of its presence. He became aware; he peered through the foliage. What was it? He could not quite see; he could not make out; except that it was huge, long and dark. He thought of turning back, for he was but a little boy, alone in the woods bordering a dark-running river whose power had stilled him, and the lonely grove that stilled him; he was high strung with awe; he could glimpse the river; he was moving forward, unthinkingly, even while he thought of turning back. The dark thing came ever nearer, nearer in the stillness, became broader, looming, and then it changed itself into full view—an enormous terrifying mass that overhung the broad river from bank to bank.
The child’s anxious heart hurt him. What could this monster mean? He tried to call for Papa, but found no voice. He wished to cry out but could not. He saw great iron chains hanging in the air. How could iron chains hang in the air? He thought of Julia’s fairy tales and what the giants did. Might there be a fairy in the woods nearby? And then he saw a long flat thing under the chains; and this thing too seemed to float in the air; and then he saw two great stone towers
